"He's a very peculiar man—wants to keep every cent as long as he lives. When he's dead it's got to go to his heirs. That's why he lives in a palatial mansion on Madison Avenue, while I, his nephew, occupy a shabby apartment like this."
Sam looked about him, and mentally admitted the justice of the term. It was a shabby apartment, without question. Still, he was to lodge there gratis, and it was not for him to complain.
"By the way," said Mr. Brown, casually, after exploring his pockets apparently without success, "you haven't got a quarter, have you?"
"Yes, I guess so."
"All right; I'll borrow it till to-morrow, if you don't mind."
"Certainly," said Sam, handing over the sum desired.
"I'll go out and get some whiskey. My system requires it. You won't mind being left alone for five minutes."
"Oh, no."
"Very good. I won't stay long."
Mr. Brown went out, and our hero sat down on the bed to wait for him.